Love
is bad ass. so appropriate! made to fiend. made to live. and designed to die. i
would desire more—before internal outage—others are living more. upon a
thought, a tear might swell, how have we addressed that? Love is so much of everything a soul might
desire—street desperation, hips and heels, life, summer, and execution. so tragic—the sin is waking up, one might
assert this is winning! Love is a
problem for a traditional man—a soul pleading for slavery, (something is going
on), what is private is remaining private.
if i could measure addiction, it looks like ecstasy, soft and supple
flesh; the fever is in you—the pain of the climax—the helium in a given
feeling/moment; to have become so proud, to have won for a reason, with
understanding residing in its future—the pure neglect! Love has reach, as it loosens its touch,
so sickened by reality; a mind for reasoning—a soul for rapture—so cursed to
have adored you.
